


Hibiscus Margaritas

by killinghope



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Drunk Dancing, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killinghope/pseuds/killinghope
Summary: Wilbur finds himself a drink from wasted at a shitty American bar.
Relationships: Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 26
Kudos: 606





	Hibiscus Margaritas

**Author's Note:**

> dont harass creators about ships

_Maybe_ Wilbur was drunk.

_Maybe_ Wilbur was _too_ drunk, but he couldn't help but accept when Ted offered to pay for another round of drinks. He also couldn't help but accept the tens of other drinks offered to him by other people on a dare. He couldn't turn down dares like those when the giddy air of being wasted hung sweet and addicting in the atmosphere.

Unsurprisingly, downing drink after drink only fueled his upcoming drunkeness. Wilbur was someone that gave the people what they wanted, and if the people wanted him to down several fruity drinks in a matter of seconds, who was he to let down?

So he drinks. And drinks. And drinks some more.

Of course, with the more alcohol that entered his system, the less control he had over his actions. He found himself too easily persuaded by the hardest of deals, and laughing at the smallest things uttered by straight faces. He didn't really find it a problem, though, since people always told him he was fun to be around when he was drunk. Surely he was doing _something_ right by acting this way, right? Maybe some other time, he would've sat down and thought about it, but the loud music and vibrant lights were nearly completely numbing to his brain, if the drinks didn't already succeed in doing that.

He ignores the stare he gets when he's poured his whatever-number drink of the night. Maybe it's because they're judging, or because they didn't expect Wilbur to let loose so easily, but he wouldn't know.

For sober Wilbur hours prior, getting drunk at the shittiest of bars wasn't on his to-do list when he came to America for something as simple as a con. All he expected to do was get there, meet some fans, have a nice dinner with friends, and leave, but when Carson brought up the idea of a bar while everyone argued on what to eat, he wasn't going to be the one that chickened out when everyone else agreed on it.

Nose in a drink, he hums thoughtfully. He pulls down the glass cup from his face, and as he sets it aside uncertainly, it thunks on the table lightly. With a shy smile, he opens his mouth to ask the bartender for another refill, but the person next to him, who he now recognizes as Travis, stops him. The red hue of the bar's interior reflects clear on his worried face.

But Wilbur wouldn't know Travis was worried. All he knows to do is laugh— laugh to ease the tension, probably.

He had tried to be the voice of reason before, with small comments like " _are you guys sure_?" to " _maybe we should eat somewhere else_..", but those were immediately shut down by the ones who were seemingly most interested in going, Cooper and Schlatt.

Maybe they were just excited that they could finally go around and get wasted, or were hopeful they could snag a girl when teased about it, but Wilbur couldn't help but eye them when they countered his comments with rebuttals of their own.

Maybe he should've loosened up sooner, as suggested by most of the group, but he couldn't keep the taste of anticipation off of his tongue. Whether it have been because of the group he was going with, or the irresponsibility he presented when he was drunk out of his mind, he didn't know.

The glass in front of him recieves a gentle push as it's guided away from his grasp. "Hey, Wil, I think that's enough."

But what he did know was that when the first bitter shot went down his throat, all the worries and doubts from before seemingly dissipated; and when he saw all the sour expressions painted on the faces of everyone else, he couldn't help but relish them teasingly, a role he felt was necessary as the eldest of the group, and the one with the most experience.

"You wanna go check up on Carson and Schlatt? They're over by the couches."

Oh, right. Travis didn't get drunk.

_Maybe_ Wilbur was a bad influence, getting himself fucking _wasted_ , especially in front of someone this young, but for now? He didn't care— there was a whole floor of people waiting to be entertained by the one and only, and they weren't going to stall for him.

..Or maybe Carson and Schlatt wanted company— whoever he got to first would be the decision he'd make. His reputation among his friends was something he could work out in the morning as he puked his guts out.

Meekly, Wilbur tries using his voice to ask Travis where the couches are, but when it hasn't been used for hours due to his mouth being occupied, he slurs with nearly every syllable. Travis doesn't seem to mind, although as he points in a random direction, towards the midst of the bar's ocean of people, Wilbur can't help but notice the boy trying to cover up a giggle. He's too unbothered to comment on it.

"Around there. I think Schlatt's talking to a redhead."

Nodding in return, Wilbur steps off the stool as gingerly as he can, gently thanking Travis as he watched the Brit with eyes that mirrored his tone. Though, when he sets foot on the ground, the weight of all the drinks pull him to one side, and he panickedly grips the side of the table to stop the spinning in his head.

He barely hears Travis's nervous reaction. "Oh— Wilbur, are you okay?! Maybe you should stay—"

Wilbur interrupts him before he can finish the sentence. "Fuck, I'm—" lifting himself up once the dizziness passes, he flashes a reassuring smile towards the small American. "I'm alright, I— uh— I want to go look for Carson and Schlatt. I'm good."

Ignoring Travis's unconvinced look, he nods once again to signify he's leaving, and like a fish in the endless deep sea, he delves into the dense crowd of people with one task.

Wilbur has a vague idea of the direction Carson and Schlatt are in, but as he pushes past people shoving each other and dancing, he finds it a bit difficult to keep going in a straight line. Even despite being a giant like he was, he found it tremendously hard to maneuver through the mass. He can feel the bead of sweat drip down his forehead as he apologizes to the fifth person he's bumped into, his intoxicating confidence from before suddenly gone, like all he needed was a push into a crowd to humble him.

Though, he still feels far from sober, and when he sees Schlatt and Carson come into view in the red light, his mind proves him right almost eagerly.

Carson is now seated on one of the leather couches, drink in one hand and his phone in the other. Casually, the blond takes a sip of his beer, settling deeper into the couch as he scrolled on his phone. He doesn't seem to notice Wilbur. Or maybe he just doesn't want to be bothered— Wilbur was drunk, but he could tell when someone's social battery had run out. Though he doesn't blame him, he spent the majority of the day talking to fans.

His eyes move away from Carson a little too quickly when he hears a familiar laugh seemingly echo throughout the establishment. Schlatt is stood next to Carson, talking to the random redhead Travis pointed out earlier. Her hair is bright in the dim light, and Wilbur has to close his mouth to keep an unwarranted comment from coming out as he sauntered over to where they stood.

Though, nothing stops him from thinking those comments to himself. Maybe it's the intoxication getting to him, but he can't help but ponder: _does Schlatt think she's pretty_?

Dark red hair, faint freckles, blue eyes. Maybe she was Schlatt's type. Wilbur briefly wonders if he has room for contacts in his budget, for unrelated reasons.

He reminisces about how excited Schlatt was to get to the bar momentarily, and he questions if he got what he wanted in the form of this girl. He seemed to be having the time of his life, subtly moving to the beat by swaying his hips gently and drinking cheap beer like it was his lifeline.

Wilbur's happy he's having a good time, he really is. Though, through deep bass and hot air, he can't help but want to be the root of Schlatt's good feeling.

Maybe it's his need to be the center of attention, or maybe he's just upset that Schlatt hasn't talked to him much since he landed in America, or much since they stopped collabing in general, actually. Maybe it's the leftovers of something unrequited.

Or maybe he's just too drunk for this— maybe he's just overthinking everything, because why is he getting so upset over something as simple as small talk? His feet drag along the floor. Maybe he just had too many of those exotic margaritas. American brunet. Wilbur wants another drink.

He barely realizes that he's still moving towards Schlatt and the girl he's talking to. The closer he gets, the louder her laughter and Schlatt's amused chuckles seem to get, and he has to hide the sour expression he makes.

Pushing down any previous thoughts, Wilbur puts on his best drunkard grin and acts casual.

"Schlatt! Hey, m'dude~!" He says, stifling a laugh when Schlatt jumps as he slings his arm around his shoulder. The cup in the American's hand nearly spills, said man turning to Wilbur with a bewildered expression.

Thankfully, instead of an earful, Wilbur gets a loud laugh in return. Apparently Schlatt is as drunk as he is.

Wilbur can pretend he likes this casualness for now. He can pretend that Schlatt talks to him sober more than he does drunk.

" _Wilburrr_! I was wondering when I'd see you, haven't seen ya since we got here, man!" Schlatt is a lot more hyper than Wilbur's ever seen him, his demeanor being something like a dog's rather than the cat's it always is. He doesn't mind though, because it's easier to make conversation with someone who's too excited rather than not. And maybe a change like this is nice, even if it is temporary, and even if Schlatt doesn't remember it tomorrow.

As he talks, Wilbur notices that his words slur heavily now that he knows who touched him, and if Wilbur were anymore hypocritical, he'd say something about it.

Instead, he settles on nodding and flashing that toxic smile of his— the one that only looked believable because of how wide it was, yet still managed to be warm and inviting, like heated chocolate. He barely pays attention to the girl in front of Schlatt as he speaks, wishfully hoping she was drunk and lonely enough to just sod off. Schlatt doesn't seem too inclined to introduce her, seemingly completely focused on Wilbur now— maybe that's a good thing in the long run.

"Oh, y'know, was off getting wasted. Not surprised you didn't see me." Wilbur replies, laughing uncharacteristically when his head swerves to the side as he spaces out for a moment. "But I'm here now, yeah?"

"Took you long enough to loosen up, eh?" Schlatt prods Wilbur's chest with his elbow, cackling in his signature fashion. "I'm glad." He returns Wilbur's captivating smile with one of his own, and for some reason, it sobers Wilbur up in that one moment more than anything else ever could.

But just for one moment.

When Wilbur rolls his eyes and nods, Schlatt's grin goes wider. Wilbur has to turn away to resist the temptation of smiling half as wide as Schlatt does, and when he does, he makes eye contact with the redhead. She doesn't look as bothered as he thought she'd be, but he can sense tension between them from just a look. "..Yeah, yeah, whatever."

The loud dance music in the background is nothing compared to the deafening silence now being shared between the three of them as Schlatt takes a long swig of his beer, a tedious task because of how much he's laughing. His breathy chuckles whistle along the bottle's rim as he drinks. Wilbur has to keep himself from asking for a sip, and from telling Schlatt to hurry up.

But before he can act on either of those things, a light bulb seemingly goes off in Schlatt's head. Schlatt pulls the bottle down from his face, swishing it around in his hand before he turns to Wilbur, pulling on his sleeve teasingly. "Hey, y'know what? C'mon, c'mon!" He blurts, leaning into the Brit as they stand there, just two drunk guys having drunk fun.

"Wh—" Before Wilbur can question him, Schlatt turns to the girl he was talking to previously, shoving his beer into her hand. Her dazed look turns into one of shock, but Schlatt doesn't stick around long enough to listen to anything she's about to say.

"Talk to you later, yeah? C'mon, Wilbur—"

Grabbing his wrist, Schlatt pulls him toward the sea of people dancing to the music. Wilbur tries his best to voice his confusion, but when his unsteady feet nearly trip him more times than he can count, he's too preoccupied to worry about it. When he bumps into people as Schlatt carelessly wanders around, he profusely apologizes, but all that ever comes out are chewed up, slurring words. As Schlatt continues to pull him away, he can't help but curse under his breath; He wonders briefly how two six foot men running into a crowd of people looked to others.

He thinks for too long, apparently, because he's too lost in thought to realize Schlatt has stopped in his tracks. He bumps into said man, who's now parked dead in the middle of the sea of drunk people, muttering in pain when the sensation of the collision washed over him.

As Wilbur rubs his head, the American lets go of his hand, turning to him and grinning widely, like there was something to be proud of. Wilbur wants to be mad at him, but as he glances towards the direction in which they left the redhead, he's left more confused and concerned than anything.

"Weren't you talking to that girl?"

Schlatt snickers, shoving his hands into his pockets as he swayed to the beat of the distinct song playing around them. "Lord, she was boring as hell! Wanted to leave her the moment I saw you."

_Wanted to leave her the moment I saw you_. Wilbur has to turn away to avoid letting Schlatt see the red hue that he presumes overtakes his face when he feels it heat up, but he's probably too drunk to notice anyway. Wilbur's also probably overthinking his comment— of course he'd want to spend time with a friend, right? A friend he's barely paid attention to since he-doesn't-know-when.

Wilbur sniffs, his hands remaining awkwardly by his side. He doesn't know what to do with them, so he lets his digits tap his jeans along to the tempo. By biting his tongue hard enough to probably draw blood, Wilbur manages to barely stop himself from saying anything along the lines of _oh, I thought you cared about her more than you actually did, because I'm overthinking our relationship_. "Asshole move, Schlatt."

Though, he'd never tell a soul he was secretly pleased.

Rolling his eyes, Schlatt scoffs, like Wilbur was being the killjoy here. "What _ever_ , man! Come on, that doesn't matter anymore. I brought you over here for another reason!"

Wilbur's idiotic, drunken mind doesn't connect the dots, and maybe that's a good thing, because as Schlatt stares at him expectantly, he quickly gets tired of waiting and acts himself. Wilbur's idiotic mind also doesn't expect Schlatt to lean down slightly and grab ahold of his hands, because when he does, he internally freaks out. The American has a smug look painted on his face as he connects their hands and pulls Wilbur closer to him, and he just wants to wipe it off.

Wilbur's always known he was teasing and affectionate when he was drunk himself, due to countless stories of his own forgotten experiences being retold to him, but he never expected anything of the like to come from Schlatt. Apparently his facial expression says all it needs to, because Schlatt laughs loudly.

"C'mooon, Wil! I thought you loosened up already! We're just gonna dance a bit!"

Huh.

Wilbur shakes his head instantly, blabbering on about something incoherent before his words start to finally make sense. His face, warm from Schlatt's comment earlier, only heats up more. Maybe this was what he secretly wanted, but when it finally presented itself to him, he wanted nothing to do with it. "Schlatt— are you— I can't dance! Can _you_ dance?!"

Schlatt steps back, leading Wilbur along with him. He doesn't respond verbally at first, working on steadying himself on his drunken feet, before glancing up towards Wilbur with a jokingly annoyed expression. "Oh, come _on_ , Wilbur, you think anyone here fuckin' cares?" He laughs, his grin somehow brightening up the entire room.

Wilbur knows he has a point, but as a lanky 6'6" man with two left feet, he doesn't want to even try to dance— was Schlatt even any better? He was nearly as tall as him, and in the months of knowing him, he's never shown a lick of talent in this category.

And he's drunk. They're both so drunk that any time they walk, they sway side to side and laugh. Wilbur doesn't want to imagine how horrible it'd be to try and dance like this.

He swallows down the same anticipation he felt before he got drunk. "Okay. _Okayyy_ , lead me."

On cue, Schlatt's eyes light up. Squeezing Wilbur's hands tightly, he steps foward, causing Wilbur to lean back in response. A confused expression finds it's way onto Schlatt's face before it disappears like it never occurred.

"Okay, so, uh, you just go with the beat, y'know? Rock your hips like you're fuckin' 'er."

Wilbur grimaces. "Isn't that just thrusting?"

Schlatt's expression is comically judgemental. "No, what the fuck— are you even paying attention to me?"

Tufts of the American's hair fall onto his forehead, slickened with sweat, and Wilbur wants to push them back with his hand; maybe he'd have given into that want if their hands weren't intertwined. His stubble is also on Wilbur's mind, for some reason; he thinks about it scratching against his chin roughly.

Maybe his eyes would've been on Wilbur's mind too if he knew what fucking color they were. Though, it'd be way less poetic and underlyingly romantic if he described them as enigmatic.

" _Wilbur_ —" Eyes refocus on Schlatt's lips. Wilbur's breath hitches as Schlatt's tongue glides over the top one. "Wilbur, stay with me, champ."

As much as Wilbur would've liked to pay attention to whatever Schlatt was saying, it's hard to focus on anything but their hands intertwined and the short distance between them. Schlatt's palms feel unusually rough against his— like they've been worn from too much physical activity, which leaves him to wonder what he does in his free time. His hands are also slightly smaller when placed against Wilbur's, and he can't help but gawk now that he has the opportunity to.

Schlatt's hard stare doesn't leave Wilbur's face, so he pulls his hands away reluctantly. He would've liked to keep them there, but something tells him he'd act on an urge if he did, especially if Schlatt kept looking at him like that.

He ignores the scoff he gets from Schlatt, who's shaking out his hands with a seemingly disappointed look. He also ignores how his hands go to his waist, and the pout on his lips that occurs shortly afterwards. " _Pah_ , okay, whatever. We can work with this. We can work with this!"

Wilbur catches the sour smell of alcohol as Schlatt leans in closer to him to show him the ropes once more. "Just do what I told you. Like this." he mimicks the beat of the song by humming, then demonstrating by moving his hips side to side. Wilbur looks down for a split second, only to look back up quickly.

"Aren't I supposed to be the musically inclined one?"

"Shut the fuck up, okay?! Are you gonna do it or not?!"

Wilbur opens his mouth to protest, but when he decides that he doesn't want to pick a fight with Schlatt, he closes it. Despite how stupid he thinks this all is, Wilbur slowly matches Schlatt's movements, cringing when he realizes how dumb he looks.

So that's exactly what he says when he stops. He laughs to cover up the heat of embarrassment on his back. "I look fuckin' stupid, Schlatt."

"No, no! You're doin' fine, Wil!" Schlatt frowns, wiping the sweat on his forehead with his forearm. His sudden urge to reassure Wilbur leaves the Brit confused. "Come onnn.."

The fact that Schlatt continues to sway back and forth is endearing, to say the least. Maybe he's trying to encourage Wilbur to keep dancing with him, or maybe he's just getting into it, but he can't help but crack a smile watching him make a fool of himself on the dance floor.

Wilbur doesn't realize he spaces out staring at Schlatt until he's speaking. "We're here to have fun! Who cares if you look stupid?! We're drunk out of our fuckin' _minds_! I sure as hell don't!"

Maybe he was right. Maybe Wilbur really should forget about all of his problems and worries. The reason for getting drunk was to do exactly that, right?

Dancing with Schlatt seemed so rewarding, even if it was just friendly drunk swinging. Even if they would both forget about this tomorrow, probably.

Maybe that's the worst part of it all, the fact that Schlatt won't remember any of this. It twists knots in Wilbur's stomach more than vomiting ever could, as much as he hated to admit something as small as this hurt him.

But sometimes temporary bliss is worth the pain afterwards, right? It's not like Wilbur will ever get to experience anything like this with Schlatt again, so he should be taking advantage of the situation, right? Yet, for some reason, as he slowly moves against Schlatt unsurely once more, the sourness of amnesia coats his tongue.

But as soon as he tastes it, the sweetness of a crush replaces it when Schlatt laughs, picking up the pace he rocks his waist at and beginning to swing his arms to go with it. Wilbur follows along blindly, stopping himself from teasing Schlatt about how dumb he looked.

But it's all fun and laughter. It's all worry free excitement and thrill as they lose themselves to the music (and each other). Maybe Wilbur finds himself staring as Schlatt laughs his ass off when he trips on his shoelace, but he's too lightheaded and blissed out to care. He's all breathless joy and drunken exhilaration.

He catches Schlatt's arm as they dance, and he pulls him in closer, just like the American had done to him earlier. All he gets is an uncharacteristically high pitched giggle in return, but that's all it takes for the flustered blush to return to his cheeks. He's the reason Schlatt's feeling good, and maybe it fills him with too much of a mixture of confidence and defeat.

By the time they're so out of breath they're on the verge of passing out, they've spent what seems like ages dancing together and messing around. Schlatt is leaning against Wilbur tiredly, arms wrapped around his shoulders and chest pressed against his own. If Wilbur cared enough about anything other than steadying his breath, he would've commented on it, but instead, he instinctively holds Schlatt's waist. It's a gentle yet reassuring grasp, like Wilbur was scared that Schlatt would float away from him. Schlatt breathes loudly through his nose when he feels the hand on his waist, chuckling quietly.

"We should probably head back where everyone else is." Schlatt comments under his breath, just loud enough for Wilbur to hear. After using all of his energy on dancing, his excitable demeanor had mellowed out.

Yet he still sounds far from sober, and Wilbur keeps that in mind. They were both still drunk.

"Probably." Wilbur replies absentmindedly, keeping them moving along by continuing to sway slightly. In all honesty, he doesn't want to go back, because that's where everyone else is, and the sooner they meet back up with everyone else, the sooner they go back to their hotel.

He starts to pull away to lead them back to the sidelines begrudgingly when something stops him dead in his tracks. The song is familiar, familiar only because of someone specific, yet still familiar. It's filled with bittersweet memories. He stops to listen for a moment, closing his eyes.

Schlatt doesn't even seem to notice the song. Wilbur puts his arm out to keep him from walking. "Hey, hey, wait— isn't this Frank Sinatra?"

Schlatt looks up, puzzled. He listens for a second before confirming. "...Yeah?"

Wilbur whips his head to look at Schlatt. Sighing, he tugs him back to their former positions. When he glances around, people around them are slow dancing along to the song. "Come on, don't you love him? Let's dance one last time."

Before Schlatt can really open his mouth to protest, Wilbur pulls him back in. He tries his best to replicate the way others are dancing beside them, so he rests his hands on Schlatt's waist unsurely.

The American laughs as he realizes what Wilbur is doing, slowly wrapping his arms around Wilbur's neck as they steadily move along. He lets his head fall into the crook of Wilbur's collar, breathing quietly. "You know, I'm surprised you remembered I like Frank Sinatra."

Wilbur almost snorts, but quickly covers it up with a small giggle. "It's, like, your whole brand, isn't it? You play him before every stream without fail. How could I forget?" He smiles fondly when he feels Schlatt's chest vibrate against his as he laughs, closing his eyes.

"Mm, I guess you're right." Schlatt chuckles from Wilbur's neck, messing with the ends of the Brit's curls. Their dancing is surprisingly smooth compared to their messy flailing of before, but maybe that's just because it's to a slow song.

It's mostly silent between them as they dance to the music, choosing to bask in each other's presences physically rather than verbally. Wilbur finds himself dozing off during the majority of the song when he feels Schlatt remove himself from his neck. He opens his eyes, jumping back a bit when he sees Schlatt looking at him intently.

"Wh—"

"Can I kiss you?"

Wilbur's breath hitches in his throat as he stares at Schlatt in disbelief, and it's as though all the confidence he had moments before completely dissipates in a snap. It takes everything in him not to choke on it as his body temperature skyrockets.

Schlatt doesn't seem to be joking either. His expression is gentle and innocent, though that may just be because of his fatigue. He stands his ground as he waits, meeting Wilbur's gaze calmly as the man internally panicked.

Wilbur takes a moment to consider his options.

Schlatt won't remember this tomorrow. Wilbur won't remember this tomorrow.

Fuck it.

Wilbur leans down before he can change his mind, and he presses their lips together delicately. Schlatt's lips are rough, and his stubble brushes against his skin, but he doesn't mind one bit. He kind of enjoys the unintended roughness of the kiss. Wilbur feels Schlatt exhale happily as he kisses him, and he forces down the urge to grin because of it.

Schlatt tastes like cheap booze. Wilbur didn't expect anything else, but his mind fills in what he _could_ taste like for him anyway. It's the sweet tang of hibiscus, and maybe the sourness of grapefruit. It's grape, and strawberry, and orange.

Schlatt pulls away before Wilbur's mind can give him more suggestions. As Wilbur opens his eyes, Schlatt is smiling dopily. His cheeks are dusty pink, and his eyes are bright.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to fuckin' do that."

Leave it to Schlatt to wait until he's wasted to kiss someone.

"Is that so." Wilbur questions, though it sounds more like a statement, as he plays with the hem of Schlatt's shirt distractedly. Wilbur can basically hear Schlatt rolls his eyes.

And, as if on cue, and as if the stars aligned, the song ends at the perfect time.

They stay stood there, hands on waist and neck, as they collect their thoughts. The new song comes in eventually, but they're too busy embracing each other to really notice.

It s silent until Wilbur speaks up. "We should really head back now." He murmurs when Schlatt leans up to kiss him one more time. As much as he wished he could stay here, he knew they couldn't.

"How the fuck are we supposed to act normal after this.." Schlatt mumbles in response, his eyes half closed as he brushes his lips against Wilbur's. Though, he doesn't wait for a legitimate answer, because he removes himself from Wilbur before he can answer. He dusts himself off, glancing around.

Wilbur pushes down the heaviness of disappointment in his chest. "C'mon." Grabbing his wrist like his was held before they danced, Wilbur pulled Schlatt along the crowd of people, making sure to be careful, unlike the time before.

The silence between them hung heavier than Wilbur expected it to. Maybe it was the fact that they just kissed and they both wanted more but they couldn't do anything about it except keep staring and glancing, or maybe it's the fact that they had to talk to the rest of their group like nothing ever happened. Or maybe, for Wilbur, it was the reoccurring thought that this would all be forgotten about by the time they fell asleep.

They get to the group faster than Wilbur wants them to. It somehow feels as though, as he held Schlatt's hand and wandered aimlessly through the crowd, time went by both excruciatingly slow yet extremely fast just walking back.

When they do get to the group, they're all talking amongst themselves, getting ready to call Ubers to their respective hotels. Wilbur booked at the same hotel as Schlatt, Charlie, and Carson had, so as he walks up to them, he hopes they already managed the situation in the back of his mind.

He's proven right when Carson stops his conversation with Charlie to tell them the Uber is already arriving. They seem to share a knowing glance when Schlatt groggily walks up behind him. Other than a smile, neither of them really share any conversation other than bits and pieces of small talk, mostly because anytime Charlie asks a question, Wilbur's too lost in his own head to answer it, and also because he doesn't want to answer.

He overhears Carson ask if Schlatt had a good time. The New Yorker only responds with a chuckle. Wilbur can hear the audible confusion from Carson, and also the sound of his mind overreacting to a simple noise.

He hates that he has to act casual around them like he didn't just drunkenly dance with and kiss Schlatt. He hates that he has to laugh along to Charlie's half-baked joke in the backseat of the Uber when all he wants to do is go back to the floor of the bar. He hates that Schlatt doesn't even spare a glance his way as soon as they leave the bar.

Wilbur's too tired to comment on anything anymore. At this point, he accepts that everything that happened in the past few hours will seem like a weird fever dream for Schlatt to reminisce on as he throws up tomorrow. Though, he still can't help but be disappointed.

The elevator ride is silent as the four of them stand and wait for their floor when they get to the hotel. Wilbur doesn't blame them for being quiet at this point, they're all worn out from drinking and the forced conversations.

Charlie gets off first, followed by Carson. When they both exit, Schlatt doesn't move from where he's standing next to Wilbur. He doesn't rush to kiss him or hug him. They just stand there in silence.

Wilbur stares at the button Schlatt pressed earlier as they continue to go up. He doesn't have anything else to say or do, so what would be better than to casually remind himself of the lack of permanence his life seemingly had?

The elevator dings. Wilbur expects Schlatt to get out without another word, but the brunet turns to him with a gentle expression. Wilbur doesn't get a word in before Schlatt grabs his hand, pulling him out of the elevator along with him. A surprised gasp escapes Wilbur's lips as he's tugged, nearly falling into Schlatt's arms in the process.

Wilbur immediately turns back to get in, but when he does, he finds that the elevator has already closed. He whips back around, staring at Schlatt with a look of disbelief.

"Schla—"

"Shh, come on."

Schlatt pulls out his keycard, grinning. It's such a God damn contagious grin, and Wilbur hates it, because as much as he wants to frown and be mad, his muscles do the exact opposite.

But as soon Schlatt goes in to kiss him again, it instantly becomes genuine.

The kiss is somehow softer than the one they shared at the bar. Schlatt's lips are still rough, and his stubble still itches against his face, but when Wilbur feels as though they fit against his like a puzzle piece, he can definitely put up with it. There's a sense of need and want rising to the surface when Schlatt puts his hands on Wilbur's waist, and even though there's no words shared between them, they both know what they want.

They pull away. Wilbur tries to ignore the string of saliva that connects their lips, but when Schlatt wipes it away with a stupid grin, they both can't help but giggle.

There's quiet laughter and stolen kisses as Schlatt leads the way to his room. They can barely get to the door without finding a way to tease each other, and it shows when Wilbur pins Schlatt against the wall before they can even get in, pressing his forehead against his and breathing in the smell of alcohol. Wilbur doesn't mind it. He doesn't mind anything at all.

"Come on, Wilbur, I need to open the fucking _door_."

"It can wait."

They'll be alright tomorrow.


End file.
